


waxing, waning

by vesperthine



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Banter, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 20:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14838308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesperthine/pseuds/vesperthine
Summary: They’re in a car, heading towards the E6. Streetlights become blurred dots in the watery dark, and the shadows pass over Isak’s face( – waves of lights, waxing and waning like the moon, the tide, the moods – )as they’re navigating through the currents of traffic.





	waxing, waning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [champagneleftie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/champagneleftie/gifts).



> a little birthday ficlet för my darling P ([@champagneleftie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/champagneleftie)), because she really, truly deserves it. i hope you had a wonderful, lovely day, darling ♡♡

They’re in a car, heading towards the E6. Streetlights become blurred dots in the watery dark, and the shadows pass over Isak’s face  _( – waves of lights, waxing and waning like the moon, the tide, the moods – )_  as they’re navigating through the currents of traffic.

A spontaneous day trip to Gothenburg  _( – actually half-planned for two months – )_. It would’ve been just as well spent at home. On their balcony, in the heat under that corrugated roof, on the cheap chairs with a warm beer, a shared blunt. A change of scenery is good for the mind, though.

To walk on unfamiliar streets for a few hours; to explore them together.

See them from above in that Ferris wheel.

There’s also something exhilarating about going away, leaving, fleeing. About running although you’ve got nothing to run from  _( – escaping because you can, not because you must – )_

Here, it’s been raining all day. A light, misty rain. It hadn’t been so much a nuisance as a welcome chill after these weeks of the oppressing, Mediterranean heat. Isak’s hair is _( – still flat where he’s worn his cap, yet unkempt somehow, perfectly imperfect – )_  all curly from the humidity, though.

It glints golden every time they pass another streetlight.

Even should look at the road. It’s the responsible thing to do.

He knows this.

The traffic light turns green, and he puts his foot on the gas. In the passenger seat, Isak leans forward. Opens the glove compartment to take out the old Cola bottles they’ve re-filled with water. Unscrews the cap. Takes a sip.

Holds it out for Even to take without a thought  _( – attuned to his increased need for water by now – )_

He takes it. Drinks it. Hands it back.

“Want me to put on some music, or do you need to concentrate?”

“No, it’s fine. We’re almost out, anyways.”

“Okay. I’ll wait, then.”

Isak puts his phone back in his pocket. Leans his head against the neck rest, closes his eyes, content. They stop for a red light, the last one before the motorway, and Even looks at Isak.

Rain patters against the windshield. Reflected droplets trickle down over Isak’s cheek, drips into his dimple and  _( – down down down along his throat the angle of his jaw with the few red spots on his sensitive skin and Even wants this to never – )_ disappear.

Never wax, never wane. To stay inert. Resting. Stable.

Impossible.

“Hey. Do you ever wish I could drive?”

“Do you wish you could?”

It makes Isak laugh; to snort and smile without teeth. “Well. Sometimes, I guess. It’s scary, but it would be more practical.”

They overtake a van, and now they’re finally on the motorway. Three or four hours until they’re back in Oslo. Home, in their room, in their bed, in each other.

“It is. But it’s also kind of nice that you can’t.”

“It’s nice that I can’t drive?”

The indignation in his voice at the prospect of being unable to do something is adorable. It always has been  _( – ever since he claimed to be the master of holding his breath, which he has become, but that’s not something to think about now – )_ and it always will be.

And Even is the only one who gets to  _( – have the privilege, privilege, never forget that privilege to  – )_  rib him, poke him, tease him in all the ways, mental and physical, and get nothing but a breathless laugh in return.

Even winks, knowing he’ll fail. “Yeah. It means that you need me to do it for you, master of driving.”

Isak shakes his head, but then, there it is. A tick, tick, tick, like that of a pipe bomb smile in the corner of his mouth.

“You idiot.”

“It makes me feel fulfilled, though.”

“Having a happy personal driver is good. That way, I don’t have to return the favour, since he’s so fulfilled already.”

“Oh, you think I’m doing this for free?”

The rain hits the windshield with a sudden intensity. The smile explodes; spreads forth over Isak’s face like blood from a burst capillary. Even aches in the same way, all tender and fond.

“You  _just_  said you’re happy to do it!”

Laughter sparkles within him. How is it that this  _joy_  is a part of the human condition.“You are returning it, though. Only you don’t know it.”

“Oh, I know.” Isak’s hand lands on his thigh. Fingers dig into the inseam of his jeans, and in the corner of his eye, Isak’s smile has softened. “It’s not a favour though. I want to.”

“No, I know.”

Something possible, yet inert: Even’s will to kiss that mouth _( – thin, but soft lips that mould against his, firm enough to mould around – )_. Waxes, wanes, but constant, everpresent.

They’re in a car on the E6, leaving Gothenburg behind. No streetlights, far enough from the city for there to be fewer cars. He should look at the road. He knows this. But three seconds  _( – of risk, of responsibility, of control – )_ he can spare, is worth it.

Even turns his head, eyes on  _( – this being that is here with him, through waxes and wanes, ebb and flood – )_ Isak, and tilts his head. And Isak leans in, hand on his thigh. 

Nudges his nose with his, breathes over his mouth, makes his hair stand on end  _–_  and kisses back.


End file.
